


Fever

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Nessian - Freeform, Post-ACOWAR, post-bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: When a sick Cassian refuses to stay in bed, Rhys is forced to send in reinforcements.





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading, my loves.

“Traitorous ass.”

“I’m not sorry,” said Rhys.

“You should be,” said Cassian.

“You left me no choice,” said Rhys.

“It’s a cold,” Cassian snarled. “I’m your commander. You can’t just put me on leave because of a damn _cold_.”

At any other time, Rhys might have conceded. Cassian was the best warrior in all of Prythian, worthy of all his titles and reputation ten times over. But as a patient, he was the absolute worst. The stubborn prick had refused Madja’s orders to rest, even though he was on the verge of total collapse.

“I’m your High Lord,” said Rhys. “And you know as well as I do that this isn’t just a cold.”

It was rare for a fae to succumb to illness, but when they did it was almost unbearable. The pain was like being pierced with ash—not enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate. Headaches, soreness, chills, fever, nausea...though the symptoms were similar to that of human influenza, the severity was magnified a thousandfold. Some even required a sleeping draught so they wouldn’t suffer through the worst of it.  
  
Cassian, like the good soldier he was, simply carried on. Until it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to much longer. It took the combined efforts of Azriel, Morrigan, and Rhys to ambush him in the war camps, winnow him home, and haul him into bed. Of course, he fought them every single inch of the way and there were serious considerations of tying him up. But Cassian had grown so dangerously weak that Rhys dismissed them.

Besides, he had one card up his sleeve and if there was ever a good a time to use it, it would be now.

“Pulling rank is a cheap shot,” said Cassian. “I can leave whenever I want, you know. High Lord or not, you can’t actually stop me.”

Rhys smirked.

“One, since you can barely stand, that argument is moot. Two, you’re absolutely right. I can’t stop you from being a complete idiot. But _she_ can.”

Cassian groaned. “I swear to the old gods, if you actually brought  _Feyre_ into this I’ll…”

Rhys clucked his tongue. “Oh no, dear brother. It’s not my darling Feyre I called to keep watch over you.”

Cassian’s brow furrowed in confusion, his fevered mind working double time to puzzle out Rhys’ meaning. Then his eyes widened in panic as the realization hit him.

“No, no. You wouldn’t be that stupid. You wouldn’t _dare._ She’s in the Summer Court. She’s...she’s...”

“On time, apparently.”

Above them, the fae lights flickered in and out as thunder rumbled in the distance. A gathering of clouds darkened the horizon, even though it had been clear and sunny not a minute before.

Rhys hid a smirk. His sister-in-law certainly had a flair for dramatics.

“You called _Nesta_?” Cassian clutched the sheets beneath him, sweat beading at his brow. From nervousness or exhaustion, Rhys couldn’t tell. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea what she’ll do to me when she—”

The door creaked open behind them. There was no further preamble or fanfare.

Nesta was here.

She tilted her head by way of greeting her High Lord and bid him a curt, “Get out.” Then she swept a cutting glare to her defenseless mate and said, “I can it take it from here.”

Rhys winked. “Try not to leave him in worse shape than we found him.”

“I make no guarantees.”

* * *

“I know I look like shit,” said Cassian once they were alone.

He certainly felt like it.

“You look gorgeous by the way,” he said, when Nesta didn’t reply.

She was, though. His mate was always beautiful. The sheer jade panels of her Summer Court garb suited her well and if Cassian’s head didn’t feel like someone was grinding mortar inside it, he would have shown her just how much he admired it. As things stood now, he couldn’t do much of anything.

He was waiting for the seething remarks, the explosion of righteous fury, but they never came. And it was...odd. Normally, Nesta would be at his throat. But now she was...removed, detached. The bond between them was silent and shrouded in mist.

It worried him.

“Nesta…”

She approached the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she leaned over him.

Then she swept aside his damp hair, her fingers resting on his forehead.

“That’s the nicest thing I felt all day,” he said, wishing he could grab those fingers and kiss them.

A slight thaw in those blue-grey eyes.

“You’re burning up,” was all she said before she reached for the bowl of cold water on their bedside table. His eyes shuttered in relief when she pressed a soaked cloth to his temple, his neck, the patch of skin on his chest left exposed by his tunic.

“Are you angry with me?”

His voice sounded small, childish to his own ears. Maybe the fever was finally getting to him. Nesta could be so much harder to read than other people, but Cassian prided himself on being one of the few who understood her best. It had been ages since she shut herself off from him and he couldn’t stand not knowing what she was thinking.

“I’m not angry with you,” said Nesta.

Cassian blinked slowly, trying to gauge her blank expression, her rigid posture, the tightness around her mouth. No, Nesta wasn’t angry with him. That much was true. Though he fought the urge to tell her that she would be justified if she was. It wasn’t the first time he pushed himself too far. If it were anyone else in the Inner Circle—or Mother forbid, Nesta herself—he would have been fuming.

But if Nesta wasn’t angry, then what?

She moved away from him again, fussing with something else on the bedside table.

Cassian swallowed, wincing at the soreness in his throat. Nesta’s shield was up and, as usual, it was an impenetrable and unforgiving barrier. He probed it gently through their bond. A tentative caress. An unspoken question.

A question she ignored when she returned with a steaming cup of warm liquid. She coaxed him to sit up—not all the way, but enough to get whatever medicine she had down his throat. It tasted like ginger, chamomile, and something else...night root?

A sleeping draught.

“You need to rest,” said Nesta, before he could argue with her. In truth, he didn’t he have enough energy to. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

She would stay. Of course, she would stay. He willed his body to relax as the draught began to take effect. He felt like he was drifting...drifting across the calm and placid surface of a wide ocean. There was nothing above him save a broad night sky, stars glimmering and falling in gentle succession.

And there, like a tether to a distant shore, was Nesta.

Before oblivion could take him, he once again pressed his weary talons against her shield, hoping that she would lower them...even just a little.

She did. Just barely.

There was a glimmer of concern, of worry….of guilt? But over what? Over him? But why should she feel guilty? None of this was her fault. His dry lips twitched. No, no. He needed to talk to her. He needed her to understand...

“Rest now,” she said, her lovely voice sounding so far away and yet so near.

“Nesta…”

She pressed her lips to his burning forehead.

Then he knew no more.

* * *

He sunk in and out of consciousness. The fever raging inside him like an inferno. It burned and burned and burned. Sometimes, when it was too much, he felt like crying out. But every time he reached the breaking point, he could feel _her_ there, soothing him and steadying him like nothing else. A cool and implacable balm that plucked him out of the tempest and into the eye of the storm.

Cassian just wanted it to be over.

In the rare moments where he came to, he would always reach for her. And Nesta, his strong and lovely Nesta, was always nearby. She would hold his hand, her grip tight, and brush his knuckles with gentle kisses. She would read, sometimes aloud, her voice like a calm wind or the sweet patter of rain. She would also sleep, not next to him because he was prone to thrashing when ill, but rather on him. Her body still in the armchair by their bed, her head resting on his chest, close enough that he could smell her hair.

That put him at peace more than anything.

Then there was one night where he could have sworn he felt a wetness from where she lay over him. Had she been crying? There was no reason to cry. He was ill, but he wasn’t _dying_. He wanted so badly to tell her as much, but even now, her mind and heart were locked away from him.

A spark of panic welled up inside him, giving way to desperation. His mate was in pain, had been withholding whatever wound was in her heart from him, and he could not—even in this state—stand for it.

“Nesta…Nesta...”

“Hush,” she said, her voice strained as though she were keeping some tide of emotion at bay. He wanted her to release it. On him, if need be. Whatever was causing that ache, that distress...he knew that she would let it fester if he did not act.

“Don’t fret about me,” she said, reading his thoughts, his turmoil. “You’re nearly out of the woods. You can fret about me then.”

His laughter was a dry huff, his eyelids feeling heavy. “Stay with me.”

“I’ll never leave,” she whispered.

Then he slept.

* * *

Slowly, gradually, he felt his strength returning. It came in trickles. Then in streams. Then in waves.

Then one morning, he woke with clear eyes.

His fever had gone.

And so had Nesta.

His instincts roared at him to stand, walk, fly...anything to shake off the feeling of being caged and confined. Even now, the sky was calling to him. But his body felt drained, as if he had been waging a battle for several days, not several hours.

_Where was his mate?_

His eyes shuttered as he felt for her, tugging her to him, insistently.

She appeared a moment later, carrying a tray of what looked like broth and bread.

“There you are,” he said, his smile faint. It was as much as he could manage given how tired he was.

She smiled in return, though it was...reluctant, tentative.

“You look much better,” she said, putting down the tray to feel his temperature. “Your fever’s mostly gone too. Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

She fed him the broth and bites of the bread, which was freshly baked. If it were anyone else, he would have scoffed and sneered. The Illyrian in him didn’t take too well at being treated like an invalid. But with Nesta, it was different. With her, he could be weak. With her, he could be vulnerable.

With her, he could be honest.

Which was why he did not hold back when he said, “I know you said you weren't angry, but I can tell that something’s...not right between us. Unsettled.”

Nesta hesitated, drawing her hand back. Had he spooked her? She was always so reluctant to give name or voice to what she felt. But she did speak to him, at least. Mind to mind.

 _This isn’t the time. You just recovered. You’re_ still _recovering._

_I don’t give a damn. I want to know what’s wrong._

She snorted. _Stubborn, arrogant brute._

He smirked. _You love it._

To his delight, she smirked in return. But her expression dimmed as she began to sort through what she had to say. Her shield was still in place, but he could feel her falter. She was weighing her options, weighing her words.

There was once a time when Nesta used such calculation to inflict the most harm. Now it was different. Now that calculation was restrained, considerate. She had grown so much in the handful of years they had been mated, and it never failed to renew his pride in her.

Or devotion.

“You sacrifice so much of yourself for others,” she said, finally. “But do you think about how it affects them? How it affects me? Do you think of how....how it pains me to realize how little worth or value you place on yourself?”

“Nesta…”

“No.” She shook her head. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that you’re all right, that everything’s fine now, that there’s no need to worry. But Cassian...I always worry. How can I not? Does my concern mean so little to you that you would push yourself beyond the brink? Am I...am I not enough…?”

_Stop._

He drew her to him, pulling her in an embrace that he hoped would convey the well of feeling she opened in him.

 _Stupid, stupid...how could he have been so_ stupid _?_

“I was an ass,” he admitted, as she buried herself into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent to calm the shudder that went through her. “If it were any of my men, I would have bitten their heads off for being as reckless as I was. You were right, I wasn’t thinking. But I _should_ have been thinking...especially about you.”

He kissed the top her head, hoping she would understand, hoping she would forgive him. All his life, he had been a bastard-born nobody. Every moment, every decision, every breath he took could trace its roots to that fact. Centuries later, he still leapt on every chance to prove himself. To show that he was worthy, that he was deserving, to show that he belonged…

“But you do belong,” said Nesta, willing him to look at her. “You belong to _me_. And no, you aren’t _nothing_. You’re mine.”

_Mine, mine, mine..._

“I won’t ask you to promise me to lay aside your duties,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. “That wouldn’t be fair to you. All I do ask is that you acknowledge your limits—and to at least think if me before you consider pushing past them.”

It was a fair request, he thought, and a great concession on her part.

“I can do that,” he said. “For you, I can do that.”

The searing kiss she gave him then felt like coming home. Had he been standing, he would have fallen on his knees.

_You pigheaded idiot...I love you…_

He laughed. _I love you too, Nesta..._

The declaration surged through them both, strengthening their bond, consuming them with the instinctive need to get closer, especially having spent so many days apart.

_Just how many days had it been?_

“Eleven,” said Nesta. “You’ve been out for eleven days.”

He groaned inwardly. No wonder he felt like utter shit.

“Madja said you would have to rest for another three days once you woke,” said Nesta. He fought another inward groan. “I told her that for you it would be nothing but torture.” She reached over him, her fingers skimming along the scarred membrane of his wing.

He shivered.

“Sweetheart…”

She leaned in, branding kisses along the column of his neck, sweeping her tongue around his pulse point. Her movements were slow, deliberate...a little cautious, as if she didn’t want to risk over-exciting him.

But it was a little too late for that when she started nipping at his throat in that feral way he liked, and when she began caressing his wing in earnest. His cruel, devious mate...

She settled herself astride him, holding him between her legs as she undid the stays of her dress. “Madja told me it would be near impossible to keep you in bed for that long.” His mouth began to water as she hovered above him, half bare. “But I told her that I never had trouble convincing you when it came to that.”

“You know I’m always up for the challenge.” His answering grin was half-playful, half-vicious. “But at the moment, I’m completely at your mercy.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, before bending down to unbutton his tunic, her mouth teasing him with every inch she exposed.

As tired as he was, he couldn’t help but arch and gasp as his wicked mate journeyed lower, stopping to nuzzle the trail of hair beneath his navel...and then lower.

And this time, when he clutched the sheets beneath him, locked in the throes of pleasure and not pain, all he could think of was how three days of confinement didn’t seem so bad.

And when his mate began to use her teeth and his cries became urgent and hurried and anguished, he inwardly corrected himself.

 _A week_ , he thought.

Yes, a full week to recover sounded just fine.


End file.
